


Vendetta

by avantegarda



Series: It's the New World, Darling-A 19th-20th Century AU [10]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 100 percent relatable mood feanor, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Gen, but you don't need to know them right now, i have fabulous victorian jobs thought out for all the valar, oh and feanor smashes a telephone because he can, rated t because there is a lot of discussion of murder, this is the part where feanor just starts screaming at everyone, though no actual violence just yelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-14 19:23:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18482776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avantegarda/pseuds/avantegarda
Summary: Vengeance is mine; I shall repay.(In which there is a murder and a vow)





	Vendetta

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set immediately after Northbound and has almost no jokes in it. I am so, so sorry.  
> If it helps, in this AU I have decided that Fingolfin has a mustache. An absolutely fabulous one. I don't know why I think this, but here we are.

_April, 1894_

_London_

 

Truthfully, I never expected my brother to accept my invitation.

We had quarrelled, two years earlier, over rumors we had heard about one another— that each of us had plans to take over the family business, that we would cut the other out. Silly of both of us to have believed the gossip, but we fought nonetheless, leading to Fëanor threatening me with a pistol and disappearing to Scotland for two years with his family. I’d had plenty of time to reflect, in those two years, and had been surprised to discover that I missed my hotheaded and prideful older brother more than I possibly could have predicted.

And so it was with some trepidation that I sent him an invitation, to a reception I was holding for Prime Minister Manwë Sulimo and his wife Varda. It would be an elegant event (my wife was an expert at planning such things) and I thought that, perhaps, it would be an opportunity to repair things with Fëanor. But I was greatly surprised to receive a telegram from him that indicated yes, he would be pleased to attend.

The ballroom had been decorated beautifully for the evening, the finest champagne purchased, the chandelier lit up like a firework. In the corner was our pride and joy: a new telephone, installed in a glass-doored closet so that it could be admired by all passers-by (Nearly every branch of our family had acquired a telephone as soon as possible; it made discussing family arguments so much easier). The guest list, too, was impeccable: not only the Prime Minister and his wife, but the absolute cream of the crop of London society, from the Duke of Kilhenny and his lovely wife Vana to the acclaimed poetess Nienna Westerholm. Anairë was delighted at the turnout, and I was pleased as well, though as the minutes ticked by and there was still no sign of Fëanor, I found myself sinking into worry. Had he decided, at the last minute, that there was no point in speaking to me? Did our relationship mean nothing to him? Or, worse, had he met with some accident on the journey from Scotland?

I was so caught up in these thoughts that I barely noticed when the butler opened the ballroom door and announced, “Mr. Fëanor Gates.”

A hush fell over the guests, and people moved aside quickly as my brother approached. He was somewhat underdressed for the occasion (not, I noted wryly, even wearing a necktie) and yet he looked as dignified as always. Even dressed like a tradesman, Fëanor knew how to make an entrance.

“I’m so pleased you could make it,” I said, trying to keep the nervousness out of my voice. “Would you like a drink?

“Fingolfin, this is difficult for me to say,” Fëanor said, without preamble. “You know full well that I dislike admitting my mistakes. However, in this case, there is no help for it: I was wrong. I freely own to it. I wholeheartedly apologize, and hope that you will forgive me.”

Relief made a wide grin spread across my face. “Forgiven and forgotten, my dear brother,” I said, pulling him into a tight embrace. “We’ll speak no more of it. From now on, I follow your lead.”

To my embarrassment, I heard some scattered applause from the assembled guests, and Fëanor pulled back with an awkward smile—the first time I had seen him smile in two years, I was surprised to realize.

“Enjoy the party, Fëanor,” I said, clapping him on the back. “Everyone’s delighted to see you.”

The celebration was soon back in full swing some time later, though Anairë and I, rather unfortunately, were trapped in a conversation with Nienna Westerholm and Lady Varda Sulimo, perhaps the most oddly matched conversation partners in England. A fine writer Miss Westerholm may have been, but she could be unbearably doleful.

“Ah, yes, I have spent some time in Cornwall,” Nienna said, in response to Varda’s account of her family’s most recent holiday in the southwest. “A most melancholy place. The sky there, it makes me think of…”

But what the sky in Cornwall made her think of we were not to find out, for the end of her sentence was drowned out by a loud trilling from across the ballroom.

“Goodness!” exclaimed Varda, looking around in surprise. “What is that noise?”

“Ah, it will be our new telephone,” Anairë said with a laugh. “We’ve only had one for a few years, and while it comes in handy, it does make quite a dreadful sound!” She glanced over at the telephone closet, with its elegant gold-and-glass doors. “It looks as though your brother has gone to answer the call, Fingolfin. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh, let him have his fun,” I laughed. “He’s always been dreadfully keen on anything technological, and he must be starved for modernity after spending all that time in the hinterlands. It won’t be anyone important, anyway. Now, Lady Sulimo, do tell me all about that new observatory you’re supporting…”

We were interrupted, some moments later, by an inarticulate scream, followed by the sound of splintering wood and crashing metal. Racing to the telephone closet, I was confronted by the chilling sight of my brother, knuckles bleeding and face contorted in rage, and in front of him, the remains of the telephone he appeared to have destroyed with his bare hands.

“Fëanor! What on earth has happened?”

He turned to me, fists clenched, and to my shock I saw tears running down his cheeks. “Father has been murdered.”

I stared at him, hoping—praying—I had misheard. “Pardon me?”

“ _Father has been murdered!”_ Fëanor screamed, loud enough I could swear the chandelier above us shook. “And I have been _robbed!_ My most valuable inventions, stolen, and our father killed-- _shot in the back!_ Is that clear enough for you?”

Someone—Mother?—let out a strangled cry of grief. I could make no sound at all, just stare blankly, frozen in place, crushed by grief. _It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t._

Fëanor, however, was far from frozen. He glared around at the assembled guests, his eyes finally alighting on the Prime Minister. Before I could stop him, he had crossed the floor in three long strides and grabbed Manwë by the collar.

“You,” he hissed. “You _fool._ Why did you pardon Melkor Bauglir?”

Manwë sputtered. “Mr. Gates, do calm yourself, there is no way of knowing yet who did this…”

“Don’t you _dare_ try that with me. It was your bloody stupid idea to let him out of prison, and no one but him could have done this. I will ask you this one more time, and I expect an answer: _why did you pardon him?_ And do not try to tell me he was reformed, for I won’t believe you. _”_

The Prime Minister gently removed Feanor’s hand from his collar and sighed. “Very well. I confess, there was another motivation for my pardon. I am inclined to feel some sort of responsibility toward Mr. Bauglir, as he is part of my family. Specifically, my half-brother.”

The silence in the room was so absolute one could have heard a pin drop. Fighting my way through the haze and confusion of horror that threatened to overwhelm me, I stepped forward. “Sir, I...I had no idea.”

“Naturally not, it is not a fact I care to make generally known,” said Manwë wearily. “I felt no need to mention our connection, I’m afraid. Melkor is considerably younger than me, after all, and does not associate with our family...does not even share our surname. I apologize for keeping this secret, but Mr. Gates, we do not know for certain it was him who committed this heinous crime…”

Fëanor stepped back, outwardly calmer, though with his eyes still blazing. “No. I suppose not. Forgive me, Prime Minister. Fingolfin?” He turned to me. “We are wanted at Scotland Yard as soon as possible to hear the details of the case. Will you and Finarfin accompany me?”

“Of course, brother,” I said. “Of course.”

 

The trip to Scotland Yard yielded little more information than we had already. Yes, Father had been killed. Yes, my brother’s inventions—what he called his Artificial Diamonds—had been stolen. No, there were no leads yet. Yes, they would contact us the moment they knew anything. It was a discouraging hour, and there seemed to be nothing any of us could do; though Feanor, of course, immediately sent for his children.

My nephews arrived back from Scotland the next day, looking understandably pale and haggard. Maglor, too, had brought back his new wife, a slip of a girl with a Scots burr and pale red-gold hair. I wondered, morbidly, which one of them had been the one to find their grandfather’s body. And what they had done upon discovering it.

With everyone back in London, Feanor had assembled us in Father’s townhouse, presumably to discuss our next steps. It was the first time the entire family had been together in nearly two years, and I couldn’t help but contemplate what a joyful occasion it would have been under completely different circumstances.

“You all know why we are gathered here,” Fëanor began. “Our family has been subjected to an inexpressible tragedy. Father has been murdered, and my most valuable inventions--my Artificial Diamonds--stolen. And I for one will not rest until justice is served.”

“But surely there is nothing any of us can do,” said Finarfin. Of the three of us, he had always been the calmest, and he remained so now despite his reddened eyes and slightly trembling hands. “The police will have it under control, they’re bound to catch the culprit…”

“The police will find nothing, Mr. Bauglir is far too clever for that. He will have fled the country as soon as he completed the theft.”

“Then the Mr. Mandos and the Home Office will track him down. Fëanor, we are in mourning as much as you are, but you must not allow yourself to get carried away. The law…”

“The law will do _nothing_ for us,” Feanor spat out. “They will not go after the Prime Minister’s half-brother. It is now entirely up to us.”

“If we do, as you suggest, take the law into our own hands,” I said, “where would you have us go? Melkor could be anywhere by now.”

I heard a sharp intake of breath from my wife; she was clearly horrified I was even entertaining the idea of following my older brother’s plans. But had I not made a promise, barely twenty-four hours earlier, to follow Fëanor in all things? And after what we had learned at the party, I had to admit, I too was skeptical of our Prime Minister’s willingness to bring Melkor Bauglir to justice.

“He will go to America,” Fëanor said confidently. “He all but told me as much, when he showed up on my doorstep nearly two years ago. ‘Connections everywhere,’ that’s what he told me. In the time since our meeting, I have done a considerable amount of research, and have compiled a list of cities where those connections may be found.” From the pocket of his waistcoat, he pulled out a tightly folded piece of paper, which he handed to me. Upon it were written, in smudged but firm letters, eight names, which I read aloud.

_New York_

_Boston_

_Philadelphia_

_Atlantic City_

_Chicago_

_Detroit_

_San Francisco_

_Los Angeles_

“Do you mean to say he could be in any of these places?” Finarfin asked. “That you would have to _go_ to each one of these American cities to try and recover your stolen diamonds? You can’t possibly do it, Fëanor.”

“Not alone, no,” he replied. “But I am hopeful that I will not be alone. And so I am asking each of you, every person in this room who ever loved Finwë Gates, to follow me to America.

“My father was the backbone of this family. He was a good man, a fair man, a man who _loved his family._ He was twice the man any of these petty politicians could ever hope to be. And now he has been murdered, for simply being at the wrong place in the wrong time during a despicable robbery. And he will receive no justice, no peace, unless _we_ bring it.” His voice had grown steadily louder, until he was practically roaring. “Have you all forgotten our family motto, carved on the door of this very house? _What is ours, is ours._ Melkor Bauglir has taken what is _ours._ And I swear, by all that is still good and holy in this forsaken world, _I will not set foot on British soil again until I have avenged my father and recovered my property!”_

There was a brief, stunned silence, before my nephew Maedhros stood.

“We’ll come with you, Dad,” he said, putting a hand on his father’s shoulder. “All seven of us, won’t we, lads? We’re with you, every step of the way.”

Fëanor turned, staring at his son with blistering intensity. “Will you? Are you willing to swear to me, Maedhros, that you are with me in this, no matter what?” His gaze turned to the rest of his children, sitting in solemn silence apart from the rest of us. “ _Will all of you?”_  

He wasn’t talking to the rest of us, that much was clear. This was between Fëanor and his sons. And, I knew, before anyone said a word, exactly how they would reply.

_Yes, Father._

_We swear._

I hazarded a glance at my sister-in-law Nerdanel, sitting like a statue in her chair, looking at her family with eyes full of pain as her sons swore to follow their father. She wouldn’t go to America, I realized. Nerdanel was a practical woman, and as much as she loved her husband and sons, she would draw the line at vigilante justice. And without her, I feared for my brother greatly.

Almost involuntarily, I stood.

“I’ll go with you, brother,” I said. “I’ll come to America. We’ll find him, and we will make him pay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and requests make my day, as always! ;)


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